


Turnabout is Fair Play

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Flirting, JayTim Week 2018, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 08:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14076750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: When Jason gets an invitation to the Continental's latest competition, a simple game, he gladly accepts. It's a bit of fun, an opportunity to win a couple prizes and some recognition. That is, unless one of the other people assigned to his group gets in his way. May the best killer win.





	Turnabout is Fair Play

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my JayTim week fic; one Assassin AU story, loosely based in the John Wick world. For those not familiar with it, the basic idea here is that there is an underground world that is an entire assassin world. People place hits, get them filled, it's a whole thing. XD It's pretty neat; I recommend the movies. (Don't expect any real plot, but good combat scenes. Lots of shooting.)
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

The first notification Jason gets is an email, pinging his phone and sending him reaching for it automatically, used to the particular work-email tone that sounds. He leans back into his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table as he unlocks the phone and enters the password to unlock the email itself. His mouth curls into a grin.

The number is in his favorites, unmarked but memorized, and it picks up into silence after the first ring.

"Authorization Jay-dash-four, voice check," rolls off his tongue with the ease of routine. It clicks at him, and he hooks his free hand behind his head and adds, "I'm calling to confirm my reservation."

_"Jay-dash-four, your reservation is confirmed. Check in will be by noon tomorrow at your current time zone and chosen Continental resort. Thank you for calling to confirm; we appreciate your business."_

It hangs up, and Jason rolls his eyes at the carefully coded language. The voice on the other end doesn't sound automated, but he knows it is. He's met the woman who runs the entire technical side of the Continental; attractive, and more likely to put a blade through someone's hand than let them touch her. Except for her partner, of course. He's all physical and all sex, and three hundred percent off limits. Neither of them are people that Jason's interested in ever tangling with if he can avoid it, and he's not stupid enough to try pushing their boundaries. That's how you lose fingers. Or your balls. He's pretty fond of both those things.

He takes another look at the email, paging down past the headline to read into the 'terms and conditions' at the bottom. Entry into competition does not guarantee prize, all meals included with reservation, etc. Sounds standard; he’s played in a game or two before. Everything provided, to level the playing field, unless you want to bring your own gear.

Jason closes the email and swings up to his feet. Well, he’ll just pack his favorites.

* * *

The rules are as standard as he expected.

All competitors are split into seven person pods, and assigned a target. A set amount of time is allowed to reach whatever city they’re in, and then the name and picture is released and the hunt begins. Participant to score the killing strike gets a point, and then the next city is released and it all starts over. A week-long event, and serious prizes to the person in each pod with the most points. Killing of your fellow competitors is highly discouraged; most anything else is fair game.

It’s a numbers game. Score as many points as you can, and choose which cities and targets to skip to get some rest instead. Some are more trouble than they’re worth.

His flight to the first city takes three hours, and he has time to grab a quick lunch before the travel limit expires and his phone pings with the name. It’s not one he immediately recognizes, and since access to the Oracle information network is banned for the duration of the event, simple internet searches will have to do. Ten minutes to find him, another two to call the main desk of the office skyscraper he’s working in and put on his best friendly-professional voice.

“Hello, would you mind telling me if Greg’s working today?”

_“Greg?”_ the receptionist asks, and Jason flicks his fingers to get the attention of the waiter before he drops a hundred on the table and grabs his luggage to start to head out

“Oh, sorry, Gregory Lancaster? He asked me to bring him by some papers, and for the life of me I can’t remember if he said he was working today or tomorrow." He puts a smile in his voice, some amusement. "That's what I get for forgetting to write it down, right? If there's any way you can check his schedule, that would really help me out."

She gives a small laugh, and a friendly sounding, _"Absolutely. Give me just a moment here."_

"Take your time."

He's only made it to the curb, his other hand lifting to see if he can flag down a taxi, when she speaks again. _"There we are. He is working today, yes. According to his schedule he's currently on lunch, but he should be back to his office in about half an hour? Does that still work for you?"_

Perfect. He's got time to get across town and set up. "Yes, yes it does. Thank you so much for your help." He pauses, gives a small and self-deprecating laugh, and then asks, "And what floor's his office on?"

She laughs too, but she tells him. Even follows it up with the office number and some basic directions, which saves him having to see if he can find the schematics of the building. Instead, all he has to do is take a walk past the doors of the skyscrapers and look in to see where the elevators are. To the twenty-third floor, then left and four doors over, according to the receptionist. Meaning the office is probably on the front side of the building, so he wants the building across from this one. Also a skyscraper; handy.

Getting in is easy enough. There's some basic security, but all Jason has to do is act like he belongs and no one stops to question him. His clothes are nice enough to get him in most places without getting stopped, and this is no exception. He checks out the twenty-third floor first, but it's an open floor plan with a bunch of squashed cubicles, so not particularly ideal for sniping. Roof next, then he'll reevaluate if he has to. He might be running out of time to make this kill before anyone else.

He hasn't _seen_ anyone else he recognizes, but the pods are random and he sure as hell hasn't come close to meeting everyone from around the world. Plus, an obvious assassin is a bad assassin; usually, anyway. There are some people that go for the blunt, head-on method of killing people, but Jason's never been fond of that. He prefers _not_ being on wanted lists if he can avoid it.

There's a keypad lock on the door of the roof, but it's nothing he can't disable. A quick scan for security or cameras doesn't turn anything up, so he pulls himself over to the edge and sits down to pull out his binoculars from the suitcase he's got. Windows are a bit annoyingly reflective, but he finds the floor. Yep, there's the guy. Excellent.

Jason hums to himself as he unpacks the sniper rifle from his suitcase, reassembling it with easy confidence. This is one of his favorite guns; he knows every scratch and every detail of it and it's been his companion for a good handful of years. Sure, the Continental would let him buy one from them if he wanted to, but he likes familiarity sometimes. He settles into an easy kneel; the lip of the building is too high to lie down for perfect stability, but this should do fine.

His very first warning that something is wrong is the touch of metal sliding around the front of his throat. He freezes, feeling a body — warm, smaller, either male or a very flat-chested woman — press up against his back, the metal pressing sharp against his throat and just hard enough to get him to lean his head back.

_Fuck_.

"Hello there," a male voice purrs almost directly into his ear. "Been a joy following you; you won't mind if I take that last shot, right?"

He sure as hell does, but he's not exactly in a position to argue. 'Killing is discouraged' doesn't mean it won't happen, if he threatens too much. "You're pretty quiet," Jason says instead, keeping as still as he can manage to avoid nicking his own throat. "Where'd you pick up my trail?"

There's the faint sound of shifting fabric, then a prick to the side of his neck that he irritatingly recognizes as the feel of a needle. And injection. Great. Well, he's got probably a couple minutes till that sends him sprawling to the floor, then it's all just a question of when he gets back up.

"The street," the man answers, a now free hand reaching forward and taking the rifle from his hands. It's small, paler skin, neatly trimmed nails. Jason gives the gun up reluctantly. "Saw you look into the lobby, then turn and come in here. It was pretty subtle; you're not bad, are you?"

It almost sounds like flirting, and Jason debates for just a second before deciding what the hell? Why not?

"Never left anyone disappointed," he agrees, leaning his weight slightly back and just barely tilting his head back towards the other man. "You're not bad yourself; quick and quiet, huh? You as good with a gun as this little knife?"

A hand touches his shoulder, then slips in and slides down his side with firm pressure. Maybe checking for weapons, or maybe he's just getting felt up. "Good enough. Thanks for the rifle, sweetheart. You won't be out for long; you might even be able to avoid the cops if you get moving soon as you're up."

Jason blinks, feeling the threads of fatigue starting to weigh his limbs down. "Thanks. Real considerate of you." He breathes in, settling his knees a little firmer against the roof so he feels a bit steadier. "Do I get to see your face, or do I just have to imagine how pretty you are?"

"Flatterer," the man accuses, and presses a little closer to his back. Lips brush his ear as the man murmurs, "Let's save that for a second date. Maybe I'll see you again later in the game, hm?"

"I haven't seen you yet," he points out, and— and _fuck_ , he sounds just a little slurred. He's starting to feel real _heavy_. "Think you can handle my— my gun?" He snickers to himself more than anything else, leaning back into the mystery man as his eyelids flicker. "It's pretty big, you know. Got some real— _Hah_ — real power."

" _Oh my god,_ " he hears whispered, and he snickers a little harder.

A hand clasps over his eyes, and Jason grumbles a protest and lifts a hand to shove at it. Except he's tilting back and the world's spinning a little and oh, that's the ground. Alright. That's alright. The hand pulls away from his face but he doesn't open his eyes. That sounds like a monumental effort, and the ground's nice and warm under his face. Good spot of sun. Yeah, he can just lay here for a little while. That's fine.

Fingers pat his cheek, and it's the last sensation he gets before the world fades out.

* * *

The shot's an easy one to make, and Tim's reported the kill, retrieved the case he left behind the door's roof, and is walking out of the skyscraper's bottom door by the time the sirens get close enough to hear. He takes the rifle. It's a nice one, well broken in, and he likes the idea of keeping a trophy of this little encounter.

He never got a name, but his fellow competitor seemed a good sport. No deranged attempt at fighting, no cursing him or threatening to kill him. And he's not bad looking either. Tall, the semi-formal black shirt and slacks fit him _very_ well, and he had very pretty blue-green eyes under that tousled black hair. If this wasn't a competition, Tim might've made a more blatant invitation. Or he would have, until the half-drugged gun euphemisms.

He's heard some bad come-ons but _god,_ those were bad. Not funny at all. Not even a little bit. Double entendres are not even remotely the way to impress him.

Okay, it was maybe a little funny. In a terrible way.

… It _is_ a very nice rifle.

Guns aren't his preferred method of killing, but he's not going to say no to collecting a good weapon. Always nice to have more options. The week's going to be full of all kinds of challenges, after all. Tim will take any advantage he can get to score higher than the rest of his pod.

Practice and a bit of bribery gets the rifle through security and onto the plane, and he sleeps for a good four hours on the way to the next city, safe within the travel time and comfortable in first class. He wonders, idly, if any of his fellow assassins are on the same flight, but he doesn't recognize anyone and decides to leave it at that. There are five others in their pod, but he can wait to figure out who they are. No need to make himself paranoid.

The second target comes together as well as the first, and Tim tracks him down to where he's out in public, attending a fair set up in one of the city's larger parks. Crowds are one of his favorite to work in; a knife quick and easy as you pass by, and _so_ many people around to get lost in. It's just his favorite mix of complicated and simple all at once. There's a woman singing up on a stage, band behind her and the tune a bright, lively one. His target's in the audience, and Tim makes use of his smaller size to slip between people and get up close beside him.

A breath, he smiles at a woman standing next to the target when he gets glanced at and she smiles back. The _crack_ is barely audible underneath the music.

Her eyes go wide, and Tim registers first the wet, hot spray of liquid across the side of his face, and then sharp _pain_ in his arm. He gasps, spins and grabs at his arm, and the target's collapsing right next to him with a blown-out skull and one neat entry wound at the other side of his head. Downward angle, probably a rooftop. _Shit_ , the bullet's gone right through and into his arm. Whoever the bastard is they _shot_ him!

The music's grinding to a halt, and Tim finally clicks into the crowd's panic. He has to get out of here. He can't get caught up and delayed in interrogations or being a witness or anything like that. He needs to get somewhere hidden, get the blood off his face and bind up his arm till he can get back to the hotel he's rented a room at and actually get the bullet out. What a pain; this is going to set him back all week, and god knows if he'll get to the next target in time to have any real chance at them.

His scream is pretty good, blends in with the others, and he mimics the panicked, stumbling sprint of the crowd. Until he can duck into the park's public restroom, anyway. The blood's _all_ over his face. _Damnit_. At least it looks like the bullet's only nicked his arm, not actually gone into it. That'll save him some time.

With the help of a lot of water, and a heavy wad of paper towels, Tim manages to make himself look decent, from a distance anyway. He steals a coat as he flees the park, and that's the part that actually lets him blend in with the civilians. There are a lot of scared people still, the police are just arriving, but he slips past them and gets out of the area without anyone stopping him. From there it's just getting back to the hotel, and the one he picked wasn't all that far from the park.

He opens the door, pulling the coat off and throwing it aside with a frown. He strips off his shirt with a bit of irritation, walking into the main room as he takes a look at his arm. Could be worse. He'll give it a couple stitches, stick a pad on it, and call it a day.

"You're right," a familiar voice comments, and Tim jerks his head up, "saving the looks for a second date was an excellent idea."

The _man_ is sitting there across the room, relaxed and comfortable and holding Tim's stolen rifle with the muzzle aimed his direction. He goes still, drawing tight and staring across the room as he runs through options. Not many. He's got knives, but they're down at his ankles and the time it will take to grab one is probably enough time for him to get shot. Maybe he's better off just stalling for a bit of time, seeing if he can get his competitor distracted. Can’t hurt.

"You're not who I expected to be sitting in my room," Tim says with a smile, making himself relax. "How'd you find me, handsome?"

The man gives a crooked grin back, fingers tapping the side of the gun. "This? Is my _very_ favorite gun. I don't take chances with it. Thanks for leading me to the target; I didn't get you too bad there, did I?"

He blinks, staring for a second. "You took the shot," he connects, and then glances around the room. "Then what are you doing here? Point's yours; you've got your gun. Couldn’t leave without a look at my face?"

“I got an excellent look through my scope, but I figured I’d stick around and pay back that little favor you dealt me last time.” He tilts his chin towards the bed, and Tim follows the line of it to a neat, capped syringe sitting at the foot of it. He raises an eyebrow, and the man’s voice is a little smugly satisfied when he says, “It’s a little bit stronger than what you gave me. I’d say you’ll be up in about forty minutes, which should be just enough time to make sure you don’t catch the next flight out. That sounds about fair to me.”

Annoying, but nothing that Tim can’t circumvent with some work. He hasn’t even looked at the next destination yet, but surely he can figure some way around the delay.

“Do I get to stitch up my arm first?” he asks dryly, with a glance towards the wound in question. It’s bleeding down his elbow. He really doesn’t want to get sedated for probably close to an hour with it still bleeding like this. It _shouldn’t_ be life threatening, but Tim hasn’t gotten as far as he has by playing fast and loose with his own life.

“Injection first,” the man insists. “Then sure; I’ll hand you the kit myself. You can do it in a couple minutes, right?”

Tim rolls his eyes, but heads for the syringe. Unfortunately, with his shirt off, he can’t think of any immediate way to fake injecting the sedative. He’s just going to have to take the fall.

He’s obvious about it, tilting so his competitor can plainly see the angle of the needle as he slides it into a decently prominent vein. The rush of it makes him frown just a little — he’s never liked the feeling — but he pulls the syringe back out with minimal fanfare and then arches an eyebrow at the man as he sits down on the end of the bed, tossing the syringe to the ground.

“So? I’m on a bit of a time crunch here, apparently. Mind getting moving?"

He gets a snort for that, but the man gets up off the chair he'd settled in and steps around to the side, retrieving what's undeniably Tim's first aid kit. The one that's supposed to be packed away inside his bag. Well, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. The rifle gets left on that side of the room, safety carefully and obviously engaged, before his competition walks over and hands him the kit.

Tim doesn't try anything, even though it's tempting. He hasn't got time to waste; whatever the specific chemicals are that he's taken, he can already feel it gnawing at the edge of his consciousness.

"Going to give me a name?" he asks as he pulls the needle and thread out, working on getting that put together first. The rest he doesn't need quite as fine motor skills for.

The chair rustles a little as the man drops back down into it, kicking both feet up onto its accompanying footrest and resting the rifle across his lap. "Exchanging names? You think I put out on the second date? You've gotta at least get to the third, _Alvin_."

Oh, of _course_. If he's been digging in the bags then sure, he's probably seen the fake ID that Tim flies under. Mild mannered tech security consultant and all around boring alter ego.

"Your name's not really _Alvin_ , is it? Gotta say, that would disappoint me a little." Tim gets the thread tied onto the needle; snips the end off and puts it between his teeth for a moment as he digs back into the kit. "Alvin Draper sounds like some kind of furniture salesman."

Tim's just drugged and distracted enough to mutter, "That was kind of the _point_ ," through the thread between his teeth.

"So _not_ your real name then."

He glares, and his hand slips a little and splashes some of the alcohol onto his leg as well as on the pad. "Shit," he hisses, scowling down at it and capping the bottle. There's enough on the pad that it'll have to do.

It stings like _hell_ , but that's not unfamiliar. Train as an assassin, take down people bigger and arguably stronger than you are, and you're going to end up with some wounds. Tim's dealt with enough on his own to just grit his teeth and deal with it, wiping the blood away from his arm so he can have a clear view for stitching it. But when he eases his teeth to let go of the thread the needle slips right through his fingers, and _fuck_ it's down on the ground somewhere, or between his legs, and the world's… not all that steady.

He is pretty sure he's not going to stay conscious if he leans down there and then tries to get back up. Head rushes and things. He can't—

Dealing with the wound; that's first priority. He just needs to— Pads. Get some pads on it, put some pressure on, and that should hold him till he wakes up. Right? Right. Has to. If only his fingers didn't feel so fat and numb and clumsy. If only the world wasn't spinning and he wasn't tilting to the side, away from the kit. His arm still hurts, he _needs_ … needs to get it dealt with, even if it’s just a stop gap measure. _Anything_.

He reaches for the kit, but it’s so… so far. Everything’s so far away.

* * *

Tim wakes groggy, over-sensitive in all the wrong ways and with everything too bright and not nearly clear enough for him to deal with. He shuts his eyes, stays still and slowly tries to piece together the fragments of mind and information he has left.

On a bed, pillow under his head. His left arm aches up near the bicep; bullet wound, right. Still smells like hotel-room, but also antiseptic and… he’s pretty sure that he passed out at the end of the bed, not the top of it. The other man, his competitor, said he’d be out for just under an hour, right? He doesn’t feel wet sheets, or especially dizzy or lightheaded. The wound was deep enough that he doesn’t think it would have stopped bleeding entirely on its own. It needed pressure, stitches.

He cracks his eyes open against the light, turning to look down at his arm. It’s… bandaged. Well, apparently, because he’s not seeing any blood seeping through.

Tim’s pretty positive he didn’t do that. Did that guy…?

No time. He’s got travel to catch up on, and he… He pushes up, keeping weight off his arm and pushing past the remaining fogginess and heavy feeling. He does stumble a bit as he crosses the room, dropping down to his knees and digging into his bag to find his laptop. Then his slacks, and he’s relieved to find his phone still there (and blinking with unread messages). Checking the next destination is easy, and then he boots up his computer and gets to work searching for the soonest flight there.

If he was going to just miss it by being unconscious for an hour, but his competitor still had time to apparently stitch and bandage his arm and still have time for travel and getting there in time for the boarding gap, then it was the closest airport and a departure time that’s… soon. Boarding might not be done. Might not even quite be started if he’s lucky.

He flips his phone open and calls the desk. Breathing out and tipping his head back as he draws his voice tight and panicky.

_“Hello, this is Jennifer. How may I direct your call?”_

“I need to report a bomb threat.”

* * *

When the plane gets delayed, for 'mechanical reasons,' Jason gets a little suspicious. But he doesn't see the pretty, black-haired 'Alvin' anywhere as they finally do get to boarding. Security seems especially stringent though, some intense staring by security personnel as they hand off boarding passes and file onto the plane. He's glad he took the extra time to make sure that he put through his identity this time as an air marshal. Nothing that the pilot or workers will know (unless he needs them to), but if, say, law enforcement searches the luggage and finds his weapons…

Well, there will still be questions but he won't need to do much more than flash badges and say a couple vaguely-satisfactory compliments to make them proud of the fact that they 'caught' a threat. He's wiggled his way out of government interference before.

He settles into his seat — first class, which really doesn't go with the air marshal bit, but whatever — and gets comfortable, propping his feet up and reclining the seat back a bit. It's a couples-based system this time, so there's another seat between him and the middle, but he's reasonably sure no one's going to sit in it.

Which is what he thinks right up until someone drops into it with abrupt confidence, aiming a brilliant smile at him and mother _fucker—_

"There you are! You know, I was worried when I didn't see you out there, dear, with the delay and everything?" ' _Alvin'_ smiles wider at him, leans slightly in and then looks back up as the hostess stands slightly off to the side with a look of polite, restrained concern. "This is my fiance. We had to book the seats separately; we just weren't sure if we'd both make it to this one, you know? It's alright if I switch to this seat, isn't it? That won't be a hassle?"

Jason schools his expression into something like impassiveness as the hostess glances at him, and then her gaze drops to Alvin's hand and yes, there actually _is_ a ring there. Jason's about ninety-five percent sure that it wasn't there before, back when he was stitching up a bullet wound to make sure he didn't get saddled with unnecessary death of a competitor. Well, that and the fact that this particular competition is… cute. Pretty. Worth keeping around, he thinks.

"Of course not," the hostess says, recovering with a smile and clear customer service experience. "Please enjoy the flight, sirs. If you need anything, please feel free to call one of us over."

Jason watches her move away for about a second before giving 'Alvin' his full attention. Blue eyes meet his, and the smile turns sharp and thin.

"You look good for being drugged and shot," Jason comments, debating how he can incapacitate his competition here without making enough of a fuss to draw attention. He's sort of lacking drugs on his carry-on. "The delay; you?"

"Bomb threat," he gets as an answer, idle and matter-of-fact. "You didn't really think it was going to be that easy to get ahead of me, did you?"

Well, it was a chance worth taking. Not a gamble he won, but as gambles go he thinks he played the odds well enough.

He doesn’t answer, and Alvin apparently takes that as an opening to speak again, asking, “So do I get a name now?”

Jason takes a very careful look at ‘Alvin’s hands first, making sure neither of them is holding… well, god knows what, before he lets himself give a small grin and offer a hand. “Jason.”

The shake’s firm, and he doesn’t get electrocuted, stabbed, or otherwise attacked, so he thinks it’s a success. That, and he gets a mirror of his grin and a return, “Tim.”

Tim’s not letting go of his hand, and Jason isn’t inclined to let go either until he’s got a real read on the situation. If he’s on guard then it’s not going to be nearly as easy to get yanked in, and as long as he’s got this little bit of distance he can react in time to just about anything.

That sounds like a really exhausting nine-hour flight.

He glances down at their hands, then meets Tim’s eyes. “Truce?”

Apparently their minds work along similar tracks, because Tim pauses only a moment before clarifying, “Till the end of the flight.”

Jason lets go. “Deal. So, ‘Tim’ huh? That’s definitely better than Alvin.”

Tim rolls his eyes, settling back into the seat. “You’re one to talk, ‘Peter.’ Least I don’t sound like middle management.”

He blinks, almost opens his mouth to ask how the hell Tim knows that, but quietly decides that it’s probably not worth it. There are a lot of ways to figure out someone’s name apart from digging through their bag and looking at a (fake) ID.

“Touché,” he concedes, lifting his gaze to watch the hostesses putter around, escorting various people or striding around on errands. “So, is the flirting part of your charm, or did you mean any of it?”

Jason lowers his gaze to look as Tim raises an eyebrow, tilting sideways in his seat. “Did you?”

It’s a fair question, but it still catches him slightly off guard. He takes a few moments to look Tim over, eyeing the lean waist and the trim fit of the suit he has on. Remembers, easily enough, the paler skin and scattered scars of him, shirtless in the hotel room. Not bad at all, and Tim’s face is pretty damn good too. Towards the edge of feminine in the black of his eyelashes and the medium length black hair, but his jaw and cheekbones are masculine and… attractive, definitely.

“Yeah,” Jason finally settles on. “I think I did.”

Tim smiles, leans onto the arm rest and towards him with a downwards glance that has a very clear, focused intention behind it. Jason finds himself leaning in as well. “I could be convinced. If you make a good case for it.”

He has to go quiet for a bit, as the hostess passes by with a smile and informs them that they'll be taking off any minute, and to fasten their seat belts and turn off any electronic devices. Jason obliges mostly out of habit, before he returns his attention to Tim, who's just clicking his belt on.

"A good case, huh?" He can faintly hear the hostesses start up their speech, back past the curtains that divide first class from the normal passengers. "Nine hours is a long time."

Tim laughs a little, but it sounds inviting instead of mocking. "Yeah, that's true."

Jason gives his best grin. "Joined the mile-high club yet?"

This time he gets a peal of laughter, warm but also a bit disbelieving, which he still decides to count as a victory. "Oh my _god_." Tim shakes his head, lifting a hand to cover his mouth as he snorts. Jason keeps his grin. "You—”

Another shake of his head, and Jason teases and prompts, "Yes?"

"You are _lucky_ you're handsome," Tim finishes, "because your pick up lines are horrendous. 'Joined the mile-high club yet?' and 'Think you can handle my gun?' Those are really what you want to build your case on?"

"You know, I was drugged for that second one. I don't think it should be counted against me." Jason leans closer and a bit down, softening his grin to a slightly wicked smile. He counters with, "Maybe the point is just to make you laugh. Besides, the only real question is: is it working?"

A hand lifts, and Jason almost pulls back before it grips the collar of his shirt and drags him into a kiss. Hard, teeth nipping at his lip and a tongue sliding confident and proprietary into his mouth, but infinitely enjoyable. Also over before he can even raise a hand to hold Tim close in turn, though the fingers curled in his collar don't let him go far.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," Jason says, making no attempt to keep the smug satisfaction out of his tone. "That the right assumption?"

Tim tugs at his shirt. Smiles sharp and gorgeous. "Like I said, you're lucky you're handsome."


End file.
